It’s Sunday. And despite my very best efforts to sleep in, I’m wide awake at 5:45 a.m. and ready to eat breakfast. Pronto.

Then, I hear it. The voice.

“Kaaaaate, you should wriiiiiiiite.”

Because as a writer, they say you should write every day. (Who is “they” anyway?)

I roll over. I don’t wanna write every day. Sometimes I just want to watch Bravo.

Then it creeps in.

Writer’s Shame. It’s like Catholic Guilt for creatives. And I have expertise in both.

Writer’s Shame happens when you realize it’s been almost a year since your last blog post.

One year. Four seasons. Nothin’ but crickets.

I decide not to think about this. I’m going back to sleep. Because what would I even say?

Books. There are three on my nightstand I’m slogging through. The slogging part might stem from my, um, interesting reading habits.

As in, I skip around.

I like to start in the middle of a book. Then go back and read the beginning.

I also skip long paragraphs with descriptions. I don’t care about the color of the leaves. Just get to the good part already.

It’s hard to get through a book when nothing makes sense. It’s even harder to blog about it.

Scratch the book report.

Oh! This week, a twenty-something had the winning bajillion-dollar Powerball ticket.

I could write about the time I thought I won the lottery.

Really.

And, no, I didn’t look to see if I had the winning numbers. I was just convinced I won.

If you could see my husband when I tell this story, you’d see a defeated man oozing a non-verbal message that goes something like:

Now do you see what it’s like to be me? My wife doesn’t even look at the Powerball numbers and she’s sure she won. Because that’s normal.

In my defense, my imagination has always been one of my strong suits.

Let me explain.

It was one of those Powerball mania times and someone in our state – our state! – won the bajillion-dollar prize. How could it not be me?

Plus, when I drove by the gas station where I bought the (winning) ticket, there was a TV crew. Clearly they were interviewing the attendant who sold (me) the winning ticket. What else could they do a story on at the gas station? The rising price of gas?

I immediately started planning how to tell my husband about our good fortune.

First, I’d drive to his office because he’d never believe me if I told him on the phone. Plus, if someone was listening to our conversation – I’m looking at you, Russia – they could try to take my (winning) ticket.

Wait, before driving there, I needed to protect the ticket. I’d put it in a Ziploc so it couldn’t get wet and wash away our lottery dreams.

Then, I’d put the ticket in the freezer. That’s where the cops always find the money on TV, right? The ticket would definitely be safe there.

I had it all worked out. It was the perfect plan. Until I checked the winning numbers.

I maaaaayyy have had one winning number. But I really can’t be sure. It was too hard to tell through my tears.

Not enough to write about on that one, either.

Maybe I could write about my (really) irrational fear.

That I’ll be convicted of a crime I didn’t commit and sentenced to solitary confinement. I must have watched a lot of Hill Street Blues growing up.

Then everyone will know my real hair color. Because I don’t think they let you get your roots done in prison.

That’s all I’ll say about that because I’m an off-the-charts extrovert and the thought of me and my thoughts alone for decades makes me break out in hives.

There. The first post of 2018 is done.

And like magic, the weight of my Writer’s Shame is gone. Until next Sunday.

The fashion world has been in the news a lot lately with New York, London and Paris Fashion Weeks, as well as the recent Oscars.

But there’s something important missing from the media coverage: freelancer fashion.

Yes, it’s a thing. And just like the real fashion world, anything goes.

Do you know why yoga pants took off? Do you know why there’s even a yoga pant industry?

No, not because of yogis.

My statistically valid research (two friends) shows freelancers are the reason for the yoga pant explosion. As a rule, freelancers live in black yoga pants. And most of us don’t really do downward dog, tree pose or even stretch on a regular basis.

That brings me to the next fashion fad freelancers embrace – vintage clothing. My own work-from-home wardrobe consists of a rotation of sweatshirts and hoodies that stem from an undergrad program that may have wrapped in the late 1990s.

There’s no shame.

Then there’s the last – and most critical piece of freelancer fashion: accessories. Or accessory – because there’s really only one you need to know about: the blanket.

Or as I call it, the freelancer pashmina.

In the spirit of transparency, you should know my pashmina isn’t really a blanket. It’s a Snuggie playing the role of a blanket. It’s covered in little Mizzou logos and warms me up when my black yoga pants and vintage sweatshirts just don’t cut it.

I think it was Coco Chanel who said you should always take off one accessory before leaving the house. But she’s wrong. In this case anyway. My Snuggie pulls all my work-from-home outfits together.

Anything goes in freelancer fashion but not everyone has the vision.

I see it in my hubby’s eyes when he comes home at night. He stares at me unsure if he should celebrate my “unique” style or if today is the day to gather friends and family, and
make that call to A&E’s Intervention so we can have the talk.

Blues and reds don’t come in contact. I separate them by a yellow, a green, an orange or a purple.

So as I type this, really, it’s just the blues and reds that don’t touch.

And, no, it’s not a political thing. Though if you’ve spent seven seconds on Facebook in the last day, you might also think that blues and red don’t touch. They certainly can’t seem to talk with each other.

My blue-red phobia – or red-blue phobia – dates back to high school. So, five years ago. We learned about symbolism in literary works. Blue was sadness. Red was love.

Clearly, I would only tolerate joy in my love life. So, the executive decision was made: From age 18 forward, the blues and reds in my closet would not touch.

The type of clothing isn’t a factor – shirts, skirts, dresses or pants. (Yes, I have red pants. Who doesn’t?) Fabric also doesn’t matter – silk, wool, poly or cotton. They all “hang” together – as long as the blues and reds don’t touch.

For a while, I put yellows next to greens to foster the whole spring/renewal vibe in my life. (I have green pants, too!) There was also a focus on pulling forward the purples in my closet because the color represents royalty, and well, obviously, that’s me.

Turns out there are more important things to do in life so I stopped that nonsense. But the blues and reds still don’t touch.

Why am I still doing this five years later? Well, obviously it’s because this “strategy” continues to shield me from great heart break and loss.

When I was 18, my parents drove me five hours south on I-35. I arrived on campus knowing really no one, only having briefly met my future teammates.

Playing college sports is awesome but I wouldn’t call it glamorous. You’re always on the road, in strange towns (West Texas, anyone?) and you spend a lot of “quality time” with teammates.

Just like every other family road trip, there are ups and downs. Fortunately, my UCO experience was definitely more highs than lows, thanks to a never-ending supply of patience shown to me by coaches and players.

As one of six athletes inducted in the Hall of Fame, I was asked to give a speech. It was by far the toughest speech I’ve written.

There was so much I wanted to say and so much I wanted to convey, and words seemed so inadequate. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t know where to stop. I only knew I wanted one to express one theme: gratitude.

I wanted the university, my coaches, teammates, mentor and friends to know that all these years later (Like five years. Okay, six.), I’m still grateful for the opportunity and for how they welcomed me to the family.

I hope you have a tribe that challenges you, fights for you and most importantly, accepts you, like mine did. I still can’t believe they picked me for the Hall of Fame and that my name will forever be in the school’s history books.

Here are my comments from the ceremony.

First, I want to recognize the current UCO volleyball team. They’re ranked ninth in the nation. Congratulations to these women – I know in a decade, one of them will be standing at this podium where I am tonight.

I am grateful and honored to be inducted into UCO’s Athletic Hall of Fame. I moved to Edmond when I was 18. I knew no one. And, I didn’t have a car.

But like every great team, I had a deep bench.

People who took care of me, put up with me, looked out for me and treated me like their own.

People like Summer Skinner, the first teammate I met, who let me sleep in her dorm the first week of college so I wouldn’t be alone.

Or my coach, Mark Herrin. He should be in the Hall of Fame for putting up with me. You can’t imagine what it was like to coach me when I was 18 – or at any age, for that matter.

Also, Mike Kirk, the sports information director who nominated me for the Hall of Fame. He saw potential in me and always tried to open doors of opportunity.

With my friend Mike Kirk

And, George Johnson, who gave me my first PR job at the state capitol when I was 19-years old. He is my “Oklahoma Dad” and still a mentor to me all these years later.

These four were strangers when I moved to Oklahoma. I will always remember their kindness, their generosity and their support.

There are four others with me tonight who comprise my deep bench. I’d like to take a moment to recognize them.

First, my parents.

I started playing sports when I was four. I was on an all-boys soccer team and my dad was the coach. In all my years of competing, I honestly can’t remember a game when my parents weren’t there.

My parents paid for a lot of volleyball camps. They put a lot of miles on their cars driving I-35 to watch me play here. Hundreds of games I played as a kid, in high school, through AAU and in college, and they were always there.

Thank you, mom and dad.

My best friend is here, along with her two kids. We met when we were 14, in line to shoot lay-ups at basketball practice.

Katie, you’ve always supported me and after 25 years, you’re more my sister than my friend. We share a name and a lot of secrets.

Finally, my hubby. We met after my playing days. I’m glad you’re getting to meet more of the team and bench who made me perfect for you.

I can’t believe I was lucky enough to go to school here and represent UCO across the country.

The opportunity made a positive and lasting impact on my life. And, I will forever be grateful.

Thank you, UCO, and thank you Mike Kirk, for nominating me and once again, opening a door on my behalf.